


On City Streets

by youngmonstrumologist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gangsterlock, M/M, Punklock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngmonstrumologist/pseuds/youngmonstrumologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After stumbling upon another teenaged boy lying injured and unconscious in a Chicago alleyway, John Watson finds <br/>himself going out of his way to help the guy out. Little does he know, things will get a lot more complicated between them than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Boy

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE AS OF APRIL 20: Everything currently posted is up to date and on track. However, I probably will not be able to post any new content until after May 23rd, because I have two weeks until AP tests, then two weeks OF AP tests, and then I will probably be an empty husk of a person for at least a week after that. Argh. I'm already frazzled. Anyway, hope to get back to you guys soon and I love you all to pieces.  
>  <333 Ollie Ciel
> 
> \---
> 
> Thanks go to my friend Grace, for betaing the early stages of this fic, and to @ellis_in_wonderland on Instagram for inspiring me with her incredible excitement about punk!lock.

Slowly, Sherlock blinked open his eyes, nearly flinching as the bright afternoon light blared directly into them. Severely disoriented, Sherlock tried to recall exactly where and why he was lying on the ground, but found he could not, so instead he tried to glean that information from his surroundings. However, a hazy white glare of light obscured the filthy gray of the surrounding walls. He slammed his eyes shut and let out a long, pained breath before slowly opening them again. 

Black shadows flitted across his vision. The world slid in and out of focus, throbbing in time with the intense pain ebbing and flowing inside his head. He barely registered the sounds of the noisy city swirling outside the alleyway while he tried to let his eyes adjust to the evening light. He then tried to lift his head, but immediately let it fall back against the hard concrete ground with a groan when he felt his skull begin to pound. The only thing that was clear to him through the haze of pain was that he would not be able to maintain consciousness much longer.

While he concentrated on sucking pained breaths into his bruised body, he dimly registered the shadowy outline of a four year old girl wheel around the corner of a building. The sudden sound of her laughter thundered in Sherlock's ears, piercing his delicate concentration. He winced in pain and drew a sharp breath too quickly.

The girl didn't seem to notice him at all. She flattened her back against the wall, pressing tiny hands over her mouth in a poor attempt to suppress her giggles. A larger outline – that of a teenage boy – appeared at the entrance to the alley, silhouetted by the evening sun.

“Harriet Lorraine!” the larger outline called out urgently, with an edge of worry and exasperation to his voice. To Sherlock, he sounded as though he was yelling over a loud engine. 

Sherlock watched as best he could from his position as the small girl took a few steps into the middle of the alley and turned towards the boy, defiantly placing her hands on her tiny hips as she did so. “John Hamish!” she squealed gleefully back at him.

The boy gave a relieved chuckle at her appearance. “You always think you can escape a telling off, don't you, Little Miss Sassy? Well, you still can't just run wild through the streets...” the boy began. Each successive word sounded more unusual to Sherlock's dazed brain, until pretty soon every one of them blended together into an indistinguishable stream of sound. Everything began to lose focus. 

Suddenly, the chiding stopped. The boy had spotted Sherlock's battered and twisted form laying mere feet from the little girl. Immediately, the boy crossed the small space between him and the girl and scooped her into his arms, lifting the child up and away before deftly placing her light frame safely on his hip. He kept his eyes trained on Sherlock the entire time, preparing himself for any move the stranger might attempt. However, when Sherlock failed to respond in any way, besides continuing his labored respiration, the boy paused in his retreat. 

His eyes took in Sherlock's lanky figure sprawled across the pavement and the city refuse: high-top blackout Converse and the feet in them spread haphazardly, tight gray jeans hugging a skinny frame, purple plaid button down flung wide to reveal a tattered black T-shirt, metal studded belt glinting in the sunlight and a multitude of fading and fraying bracelets adorning his arms. Taking pity, the boy moved closer, but just as he squatted down to look into the pale, glassy eyes hiding beneath a flop of straightened hair, Sherlock's body decided, once again, to relieve him of his consciousness.


	2. An Introduction

For the second time in as many days, Sherlock woke to unfamiliar surroundings and no recollection of how he came to be there. He sat up, so that he could better observe the new setting, and in doing so found his body very sore. Memories of waking in the dingy alleyway surfaced in his brain and he groaned at his own carelessness.

He looked around and found himself in a comfortable little bedroom, yet he was somehow more uncomfortable with this location than the previous one. The bed he found himself in was covered with a fluffy, green plaid comforter. Next to him, on a hickory nightstand that matched a floor to ceiling bookshelf and a dresser standing against the opposite wall, he found an untouched glass of water. Across from the bed, light seeped in around the blinds hanging in a bay window piled high with cushions. Aside from the books on the bookshelf, the only hint that someone actually lived there was some children’s toys piled in a corner off to the side.

Where, exactly, was he? How did he even get there in the first place? Who was waiting for him to wake up and why? Having so few answers was precisely what set him on edge about the place. And yet, he realized, it was probably preferable to waking up in an unidentifiable, abandoned warehouse with a gun pressed to his neck. 

Sherlock decided the outside threat was minimal, for the time being, and priority fell to cataloguing his injuries. He delicately pressed long fingers to his abdomen, his chest, his arms and shoulders, finding naught but a few minor bruises and a superficial scrape along his left forearm. His largest concern seemed to be a moderate, persistent ache in his shoulders, neck and head. Nothing seemed as severe as it had the first time he had woken up.

Before he had the chance to consider his circumstances further, there was a light knock at the door, followed by a vaguely familiar, somewhat sheepish sounding voice asking “You awake yet?” The speaker was British, Sherlock realized immediately.

“Yes,” he replied plainly, steeling himself for whatever might happen next.

The door opened a crack and a shadow appeared in the doorway.

“Mind if I come in?” the voice asked. By the moment, the whole thing seemed less and less likely to be a trap, and yet it was possible his captors were merely fond of mind games. Sherlock did not answer, and the door opened completely, to reveal a boy about Sherlock’s age.

The boy’s appearance was decidedly punk. He had long, asymmetrical bangs dyed dark purple to contrast the rest of his short honey-blonde hair and two silver lip rings on the right side of his mouth. He wore green skinny jeans that had large holes in the knees paired with tired-looking black work boots and a black-and-white striped sweater that was slightly too large for him. A collared shirt peeked out of the top of the loose sweater. Although his fashion choices seemed to declare the boy a problematic rebel, it was plain to see he was amiable and courteous, if a little forlorn. Sherlock recognized at once that the boy did not intend him any harm, and had never been involved with anything of the sort Sherlock had envisioned. He was just trying to be… helpful.

“On second thought, an abandoned warehouse might have been fun,” Sherlock muttered.

“What?” the boy asked, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

Sherlock gave him a close-lipped smile, looking unusually genuine for someone who was not.

The boy looked at him closely for a moment, clearly beginning to feel unsure about Sherlock now that he was awake. “Well, anyway, I came to ask if you needed anything. Food, or something…” he trailed off.

Sherlock maintained his false, almost sarcastic smile. “Nope, I’m fine,” he said overly cheerily, and threw off the covers.

The boy looked at him doubtfully.

Sherlock stood. “Well, thanks for your hospitality and all that. Where’s the door?” He stepped forward, but stopped as soon as he heard the unmistakable patter of small feet on the hardwood floor. He cocked his head slightly to one side.

A few moments later, a young Asian girl wearing a sparkly blue tutu, polka dot tights and a Breaking Benjamin shirt ran into the room screaming “Johhhhhhhhn!” and collided with the boy’s leg, almost knocking him over. “Oof,” he said, taking a moment to regain his balance before he looked down at the little girl. She met his eyes and immediately broke in to a fit of giggling. 

Recovering somewhat she asked, “Is the funny boy awake yet? I'm hungry.” John looked towards Sherlock, and her eyes followed.  
“Yes, Harry. He's awake.” He bent down to gather her into his arms.

At the names, Sherlock’s memory jumped back to the alleyway, triggering murky recollections of the events occurring outside his own semi-conscious, delirious state of pain. He remembered how the little girl had appeared, followed soon thereafter by this boy, how the boy had pulled her away from Sherlock, and then decided to see if Sherlock was ok. 

“This is my little sister, Harry,” the boy said, stirring Sherlock from his retrospection. Sherlock regarded the pair of them. The child had orange and cherry red streaks in her dark, feathery pigtails but more noticeable than anything was her small stature, undoubtedly smaller than that of other children her age. In seconds, Sherlock was able to deduce almost everything about her, but more interestingly, he was able to learn more about the boy called John than he already knew.

“Tell me, how did you become siblings?”

“Sorry?” asked John after a moment, more than slightly baffled at Sherlock’s sudden interest in conversation when just a few moments ago he had been ready to fly out the front door without so much as a thank you.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and repeated, “Your sister, how did you meet her?”

John’s lips tightened, his eyebrows drew together and his head tilted to look at Sherlock sidelong, tacitly conveying his skepticism and curiosity.

Sherlock sighed and began, “Can't be your own child – she's about four years old, judging by her motor skill capabilities and overall energy level. And you're at least sixteen because you’ve dropped out of school, even if it is to care for your sister. Realistically, though, I'd say you're eighteen, judging by the physical development of your body. Mature features, despite your height. So, unless you had a child at thirteen, she's not yours. She also bears absolutely no resemblance to you whatsoever.

“Now, I can see from here that there's only one other bedroom in this apartment. One is for you and the girl, the other belongs to your parents. But, the bed in the other room shows only the recent wear of one person sleeping in it. Additionally, your mother appears excessively in the portraits on the wall behind you, so it safe to assume she is either long dead or terminally ill. However, she can't be dead if Harry is still wearing a hospital visitation wristband and it is unlikely that you would display so many pictures to constantly remind you of her if she was dead. Terminally ill it is, then. Since your mother is ill, Harry could be an illegitimate child of your father's, but it is hardly likely that if this was the case she would be a) legally in your father's possession or that b) you would love her so much. And you do love her – quite a bit, judging by the way your focus is always at least partially on her, whether she is in the room or not.

“Going along with that, she wouldn't be an extended family member your family took on because no one would send a child to live in an apartment downtown Chicago that's already filled to maximum occupancy when other families, again, in the portraits, could have taken her on.

“She could be a foreigner, but shows no signs of ever having experienced a culture other than this one, nor of having spoken another language – especially because at least part of an accent always remains when speaking non-native languages. That’s curious, though, because you, yourself are obviously British and quite traveled. So she is not adopted from out of the country, but could still be adopted from within the country. The question is, then: why would your parents have adopted a baby and all the extra responsibilities that entails when they had recently received your mother's diagnosis and already had your punk… thing… to worry about? Seems like that would just create an unnecessarily heavy workload. No, you must have pushed for Harry's adoption because of special circumstances. What happened? I'm curious.”

The flood of fast, impatient words left John and Harry staring at the strange boy standing in their room with amazement and awe.

“Well?” Sherlock prompted.

“I, uh – can I start by saying that was positively brilliant?” John said, eyes wide. Sherlock's face reddened slightly.

“No it wasn't. I just observe things other people don't bother to see.” Sherlock paused before he asked, suddenly sounding a little timid, “Really?”

“Yeah, really!” John exclaimed. “Positively amazing! All of that was completely true.” Harry nodded in agreement, staring curiously at the boy who put her brother in so much awe.

“You haven't answered my question yet, though,” Sherlock pointed out.

John hesitated. “He got shot!” Harry said proudly. John averted his eyes and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck in embarrassment. He felt Sherlock's sharp gaze watching him, burning his new question into him without having to say a word. 

The prospect of receiving further information from John seemed unlikely, so Sherlock turned to Harry instead. “Did he now?” he prompted the four year old, whose arms were linked loosely around her brother's neck.

She nodded excitedly. “Uh-huh! And now he has a sun on his shoulder and he's super tough and other kids would be scared if they knew but John doesn't tell them.”

Sherlock directed his gaze towards John’s reddened face to search for any hints to the unabridged story, before looking back to Harry. “Why doesn't he tell them?”

Harry lowered her voice to a loud whisper, clearly conveying that she was letting Sherlock in on a secret. “Because then the big kids might say he's not a de-,” she paused, frowning at the big word, “de-cent person to play with and then, the grown-ups might say he can’t be my brother anymore.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said seriously. “I see.”

“Right, Harry, why don't you go watch telly for a bit?” John suggested, setting the little girl back on the ground and prodding her towards the door of the bedroom. 

Harry took a few running steps in the direction indicated, then suddenly remembered her mission and spun around to face the two older boys again, crossing her arms. “Cuz I'm hungry!” she exclaimed. “You said we could go eat when he waked up!”

“Woke up,” John corrected. “When he woke up. I'll come get you in a little bit when it's time to leave.” Harry looked ready to protest until John added, “I think the ninth Doctor should be coming on right about now.” At this, she perked up immediately and ran out of the room, yelling something about sass and planets with Norths. John laughed a little. Had he turned, he would have seen a fleeting look of confusion in Sherlock's eyes. Instead he told him, “Personally, I'm a fan of Tennant, but she loves Eccleston for some reason. Don't get me wrong, he's fantastic–”

Uninterested and wanting to return to the previous topic, Sherlock interrupted. “What's this about being shot?” 

John immediately looked awkward again, but squared his shoulders and took on a face of indifference. “Does it really matter? It's just like she said, I was shot,” John replied, not quite looking Sherlock in the eye as he spoke.

Beginning to fear he would not get an answer, Sherlock straightened to full height and put on his best authoritative voice. “Yes, it rather does,” he said, locking his eyes on John’s. “Even the average Chicago resident isn't shot at on a regular basis.” He needed to find out exactly how and why he had overlooked a deduction, especially when it regarded so seemingly straightforward a person.

John, however, seemed determined to spite him. “Tough. I don't give strangers all my life's details in one go,” he replied conclusively.

Sherlock’s expression momentarily turned in to one of affront before he began to scrutinize the other boy more closely for further clues on the matter. John watched him in amused silence. “Look, I've got a hungry four-year-old waiting in the sitting room. You’re welcome to come to dinner with us, but either way I’ve got to go get her something to eat.” 

Sherlock considered the offer for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could say anything, though, John added, “If you come, though, we're not talking about that.” 

Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded once. “Alright,” he agreed.

John's smiled at him. “Brilliant, then. Let’s go.” He led Sherlock down the hall and into the living room. Harry twisted around in her seat to peek over the couch cushions, then excitedly jumped down to tug on a pair of cowboy boots. 

“Alright, Harry,” John said. “Where –?”

“IHOP, IHOP, IHOP! IHOP!” Harry answered jumping up and down with enthusiasm, before he could even finish the question. John laughed.

“IHOP it is, then,” John said, grabbing his wallet and his keys off a small table before he propped the door open with his foot and ushered his two companions out.


	3. A Pancake

Stepping out of the Watsons' apartment building and on to the busy sidewalk, Harry took hold of John’s hand. Sherlock, in turn, shoved his hands in his pockets and strode along shoulder to shoulder with John.

“Contrary to what you may believe,” he said, turning to stare at John, “I was not actually in need of assistance.”

Now John turned towards Sherlock. “Really?” he asked, his tone combative.

“Really,” Sherlock assured him calmly.

“Then I suppose you'd rather be bleeding all over some dank, dirty alley, yeah?” 

Ignoring the question, Sherlock replied, “You really shouldn't pick strangers up off the streets. Could be rather dangerous.”

John blushed slightly, and gripped Harry’s hand tighter. She looked up at him and squeezed back. “To be fair, mate, you were unconscious.”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock informed him before continuing, “And that only makes it all the more dangerous.”

“Well, excuse me, Sherlock, for seeing someone who looked they needed help and giving it to them, at my own volition.”

Sherlock did not say anything, but continued to watch John closely. Unfortunately, this meant that he was not focused on where he was going, and he walked straight in to a business man in a purple tie. Sherlock took the brunt of the blow and fell bum flat onto the ground. Though other passersby turned to stare, the man kept walking, only taking the time to glare at Sherlock before turning and continuing on. Sherlock glared back at the man, watching him even after he had turned around again.

“What a fucking toss,” John said, watching the man’s retreat and reaching down to give Sherlock a hand up and. Sherlock looked up, but did not take the proffered hand until John looked back at him to prompt him to do so.

Due in part to John’s small stature, Sherlock was caught by surprise at the amount of force John applied to haul him to his feet. Once he was standing, though, Sherlock averted his eyes and occupied himself with brushing off his clothes and pushing his long, straight hair out of his eyes.

“Still don’t need any help?” John asked with a hardly concealed note of triumph in his voice.

“No,” Sherlock said petulantly. Again, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Harry appeared beside him and asked with concern, “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” he mumbled. Harry reached for his hand consolingly, and after a moment, he let her take it.

John looked pensive. “You never said. What exactly happened to you? You know, so that you ended up passed out like that in some abandoned alley?”

Sherlock hesitated. “It was a careless mishap during a business transaction,” he said darkly.

“Drugs?” John guessed.

Confusion flashed across Sherlock’s face. “What? No. Not that sort of business.”

“Well, what then?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. “Pancakes!” Harry yelled, and proceeded to drag him across the sidewalk towards the door of the restaurant before he could answer. John huffed, and followed them in. At least, he thought, there was usually a long wait to be seated. Maybe he could dissolve some of the mystery surrounding the enigmatic boy while they waited.

For once, however, that was not the case. The animated employee found them seats right away, despite the fact the place had seemed rather crowded from outside. Feeling intentionally spited, John gave the hostess a contemptuous look as he passed by.

When they sat down, Harry began chatting away happily about the television show she had been watching and her friend Eva and anything else that happened to cross her mind. Meanwhile, John studied his menu. Occasionally, he snuck glances over the top of the menu at the strange boy who had stumbled in to his life.

Eventually, he asked Harry if she knew what she wanted to eat.

“Frowny face!” she replied with certainty.

Curious, Sherlock looked at the little girl. Seemingly oblivious, Harry busted open her package of complimentary crayons and went to work coloring every inch of her placemat. Unable to deduce the answer to his question, Sherlock turned towards John for an explanation.

The other boy sighed. “On the kids menu, there’s an option where they put whipped cream and chocolate chips on a chocolate pancake to make it look like a smiley face. But Harry here, always demands they make it a frowny face instead.”

“Oh. I see,” the Sherlock said, looking thoughtful, before looking back to his menu.

Just then, the waiter appeared to take their order. “What can I get you?” he asked pleasantly.

“I’ll have the blueberry pancakes and a water, and she’ll have orange juice and a smiley face pancake, but with a frown, please, instead of a smile.”

Slightly surprised, the waiter looked at Harry, who was now scribbling away furiously with her crayons. He gave a small, bemused laugh, then turned to Sherlock, pen poised. Sherlock, however, ignored him.

“Do you need some more time, sir?” the waiter asked politely.

When Sherlock, again, did not respond the waiter blushed and looked back to John in perplexity and embarrassment. John smiled apologetically at him. “Sherlock?” he asked softly.

Suddenly, Sherlock closed his menu, and looked up to flash a smile at the waiter. “Make that two frowny face pancakes,” he said, and held out his menu.

“Oh – ok,” the waiter stuttered, taking the menu and collecting the others before quickly hurrying off.

“John’s eyebrows drew together. Then he burst into laughter.

Regarding him quizzically, Sherlock asked “Something funny?”

John took a moment to catch his breath. “No, nothing. Are you always like this?” he replied.

“Of course. How else would I be?”

At that, John just shook his head. “Can I ask you something then?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Can you always tell everything about a person just by looking at them? Like you did for me and Harry?” 

Sherlock contemplated the question. “Usually, yes, but clearly I need to brush up on my abilities, because I couldn’t deduce that you’d been shot and that should have been rather obvious.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s attempt to broach the subject again, John asked “Is that what you call it, then? Deducing? Well, even if you didn’t get that bit, it was still bloody incre...” 

He trailed off. Sherlock waited, displeased that the compliment had been cut short. When John did not pick the conversation back up again, Sherlock followed his gaze to a group of girls taking a table in plain view of the two boys.

“Do they look familiar to you?” John asked.

“They've walked by three times,” Sherlock replied drily.

Once somewhat settled, the some of the girls looked over and inadvertently made eye contact with John. He smiled at them, and the whole entourage broke in to a fit of giggles. 

“Don't encourage them,” Sherlock said, suddenly sounding incredibly bored.

“Why not?” John asked, slightly surprised.

“Because now they’re more likely to approach us. Oh look. How nice. Here they come.” 

“Hi there, boys!” said the tallest of the three who approached them over the noise of the restaurant. Once they arrived, she said, “I’m Irene, and this is Sarah and Molly,” indicating each girl with a small wave. Even while speaking, she did not drop her huge, flirtatious smile. “And what are your names?”

Though the question was directed specifically towards Sherlock, he paid the girls no attention. He looked past them, instead choosing to watch the people walking past.

When it was clear Sherlock had no intention of answering, John gave the girls his best, winning smile.

“I'm John,” he said, “that's Sherlock, and this is Harry.” He smiled at his little sister, who looked up from her scribbling long enough to flash them a smile.

“Awwww,” Sarah cooed in appreciation.

“She’s so cute,” Molly added, blushing.

“So anyway,” Irene said. “Our friend, Courtney, back there,” she waved to their table, “thinks you’re cute and was wondering if she could have your number.”

John looked towards the table, but could not distinguish Courtney from any of the others. “Well, she should come over here and ask for it then, shouldn't she?” he replied.

Irene tossed a look over her shoulder towards the table. One of the girl’s eyes opened wide, and she pushed her chair out from the table in a daze. She walked towards the group as though she could not quite believe she had actually been invited to a Hollywood party. 

Pretty soon, John became too engrossed in a flurry of compliments, small talk and number exchanges to notice his dinner partner slip away. Sherlock faded into the crowd, leaving nothing but half a frowny face pancake.


	4. An Encounter

When John and Harry arrived home that day, Mr. Watson was there waiting for them.

“John Hamish Watson!” John’s father screamed, physically shaking with rage. “Just who the hell do you think you are? Who the hell do you think I am!”

John looked at him silently, warily from across the room. Afraid of her father’s anger, Harry hid behind John’s leg.

“Answer me, you little ass!” he demanded.

John raised his chin defiantly. 

Mr. Watson stormed furiously towards John, lifting his hand as though to hit his son. Suddenly, however, he turned to violently grab the back of a nearby chair instead, and threw it viciously against the wall. The room resounded with a large thwack, and Harry wrapped her arms around her brother’s leg.

Only slightly mollified, Mr. Watson turned back to them, now able to keep his fists to himself. “This is the last time I let you screw me over!” he yelled. “In fact, you know what? Get out. You refuse to go to school? Well, I’m not going to pay for you any longer. Get out.”

John looked at him blankly.

“Out!” his father screamed, punctuating his point by thrusting a finger in the direction of the door.

Now, John’s face hardened into resolve. “Fine,” he shrugged, then gathered Harry up to go collect their things. 

 

Now, days later, the scene replayed itself over and over in John’s head any time he sat still. Not that he was entirely surprised his father had finally erupted, however. For years now, there had been tension between father and son – at first, because John was not even slightly interested in being the perfect son his father had expected and later, because of Harry’s adoption. Mr. Watson’s chief concerns had always been maintaining a steady, respectable position in his work place and in his social circles. John, however, never valued these things the way his way his father did, so when his father learned that John was now apparently taken to inviting shady strangers into their home, he took it as a personal affront.

John sighed, and leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the bus window.

His only intent had been to help. If his father could not fathom that, he was probably right: now was the time to sever ties.

John looked down at his little sister, asleep with her head in his lap and curled around the small duffel bag that held every worldly possession they owned. As the barrage of city lights slid past his window, he tried to remember a time when he had ever been so thoroughly exhausted, but could not. 

Feeling the suspicious gaze of the bus driver, John looked up and met his eyes in the mirror. John knew this was a temporary solution, but he could not think of anywhere else to go. He had already exhausted the hospitality of all the friends he could.

John saw a new passenger slide into the raggedy seat next to him and Harry out of the corner of his eye. Now John was the one to become suspicious. Instinctively, his arms tightened around Harry, who shifted in his lap. Determined ignore the person, John stoically trained his eyes on the seat in front of him.

“No place to go, I see.”

Immediately, John broke into a smile, feeling a flood of relief at the familiar voice. “Oi, it’s you!” he exclaimed, turning happily towards Sherlock. Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Honestly wasn’t expecting to see you ever again. I would have liked to give you my number before you ran off.”

Sherlock's smile slipped back into nonexpression. “You need a place to stay,” he repeated. 

John's smile fell and he let his head fall back against the torn, faux leather headrest. After a moment, though, his eyebrows furrowed and he turned to look at Sherlock.

“How did you–? Oh never mind. Of course you knew.”

“Bit obvious,” Sherlock said. “Even that idiot bus driver could tell.” He made no effort to hide his disdain as he said the word “idiot.”

John could not help but laugh at the mannerism. After a moment, Sherlock smiled too, but clearly more at John’s reaction rather than what he, himself, had done.

It was not long though before John’s laughter subsided, and his fatigue caught up with him. “Yeah,” he sighed. We're a bit down on our luck at the moment. My dad kicked us out, so we were staying with friends. They couldn’t help us forever though, so now we’re stuck.”

“Come stay with me,” Sherlock said simply.

John blinked. “What?”

“There’s plenty of room in my apartment. Come stay with me.”

John regarded the other boy. 

Sherlock waited, but without any verbal response from John, he assumed his invitation was not well received, and quickly stood to leave before John could rebuke him. Feeling defensive, he quickly began, “Well, you’re obviously not obligated to accept but it does seems morally correct to offer homeless minors–"

Breaking into soft laughter, John reached across the seats and caught Sherlock by the wrist. Sherlock froze at his touch, giving John the chance to effectively pull him back down onto the seat.

Still cautious of John, Sherlock waited for him to speak. John stopped laughing. “No, no, it’s… ” John began, then stopped himself, took a breath and started again. “That would be really good of you, Sherlock,” he said earnestly.

Sherlock looked down at John’s hand, which was still lightly holding his wrist. John followed his gaze and realized what Sherlock was looking at. Slightly embarrassed, John immediately let go and retreated back to his own space.

Suddenly, any trace of emotion receded from Sherlock’s face and he turned his gaze straight ahead towards the seat back in front of him. “Simply returning the favor,” he said. Unsure of the meaning behind Sherlock’s sudden change, John also turned towards the graffitied seat back in front of him, mind spinning. 

Soon, though, a thought occurred to him. “You’re sure your parents are alright with this?” he asked.

“It’s my apartment, not theirs,” Sherlock replied distantly. “This our stop,” he added, abruptly standing up.

“Oh, um, ok,” John fumbled, quickly trying to gather up Harry without waking her up. By the time he had managed this, Sherlock was already heading towards the front of the bus. John reached for their bag, and looked up in surprise when it was not on the seat. Panicking slightly, he looked towards Sherlock to see if he would wait, and realized with relief that Sherlock had the duffel slung over his shoulder.

Trying to not jostle Harry too much as she slept, John hurried down the aisle after Sherlock. The doors opened with a hiss as he arrived, and they both stepped down onto the relatively empty street corner. 

John was so tired that he stumbled and caught himself as he tried to turn around and survey their new surroundings. Before he could get a good look, though, Sherlock said sharply, “This way,” and began walking up the block. John followed a step behind.

A block and a half later, just when John was beginning to think he would rather just sleep where they were if it meant they could stop walking, Sherlock stopped in front of a stately, luxurious-looking building. “Bakers Street,” he announced to John, and walked up to the door, where he entered a code into a keypad.

The doors buzzed open, and John followed Sherlock in. Awe spread over his face as Sherlock led him through a grand lobby towards a row of copper-colored elevator doors, where they stepped into the second door from the left. John leaned up against the metal wall to carefully shift Harry to his other hip, watching as Sherlock pulled a set of keys out of his pockets and inserted one into a circular lock, where a button would usually be. 

Arriving at the designated floor after a short ride up, the elevator doors slid open to reveal an elegant foyer. Across a black marble-tiled floor, two heavy doors were set in the wall. Sherlock went up to the door on the left, and again, entered numbers into a keypad. The doors swung open, and John followed him inside.

Though the lights were off, the space felt big, and tastefully designed. With the sudden return to darkness, John’s exhaustion hit him. He shuffled after the dim outline of Sherlock's shoulders, which led him through what he presumed to be the main room, then up a flight of stairs. At the top, Sherlock crossed the open floor to a queen-sized bed, which John could barely see in the dark, and dropped the Watsons’ duffel there. John mumbled a tired thanks as Sherlock disappeared back down the stairs.

Slowly, he made his way towards the bed in the darkness. Upon finding it, he laid his sister down as gently as he could. He removed her shoes, then his own, before finally crawling into the bed as well. Nearly as soon as he was horizontal, John was asleep.


	5. A Decision

About seven o’clock the next morning, Sherlock was already awake and sprawled across his low, modern black couch, where he tapped away on his laptop, fingers dancing dexterously over the keys. It had been nearly one in the morning by the time he had arrived back home with the Watsons in tow, so rather than waste his efforts trying to fall asleep, he decided it would be more productive to work on some research until morning.

Harry seemed to be in tune with the sun, because nearly as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, Sherlock heard small, fast, excited footsteps racing down the stairs. Suddenly, they stopped and Sherlock heard a tiny gasp. He sat up quickly, just in time to see Harry’s wide-eyed look of astonishment before she started screaming.

“John!” she shrieked, “John, John, John, John, John, John!”

Sherlock jumped to his feet in surprise, but by the time he had done so, and realized he had absolutely no idea how to react, John’s quick, uneven steps could be heard on the stairs. Before Sherlock had the chance to say anything, Harry spun towards John and began jumping up and down in excitement. “Look, look, look, look, look!” she exclaimed excitedly, spinning in circles and pointing at everything she could see.

Immediately, Sherlock relaxed, knowing now that the little girl was excited rather than terrified. John chuckled, then began to look around himself. Sherlock watched as amazement seeped over his tired face.

“The stairs are flying!” Harry yelled, pointing.

“It’s called a ‘floating staircase,’” John told her, numbly.

Harry gasped again. “Look at the buildings,” she whispered, then ran as fast as she could towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, where she pressed her face against the glass.

John’s eyes landed on the windows, too – or rather, what was outside them. “Jesus,” he said and slowly walked after his sister. Before them was the entire city-scape, right up to where it ended at the waterfront of Lake Michigan. As if that weren’t breathtaking enough, however, the sky was a dazzling shade of light orange, streaked with delicate pink clouds. The angle of the sun backlit the buildings, leaving just the black outline of the horizon.

The Watsons stood enraptured, watching until even the smallest tint of color was replaced with a clear blue. Sherlock, in turn, watched them for the fifteen minutes that the sunrise took. He was uninterested in sunrise itself, as he had seen the thing a million times before, but he took care not to interrupt the two because the moment seemed almost enchanted to them.

When John finally turned around, Sherlock was sitting on the narrow couch back, arms folded, waiting. John blushed, remarking “Wow, Sherlock, you actually live here? It’s extraordinary…” 

Sherlock shrugged. John turned slowly to take in the rest of the apartment.

The room was spacious, open, and airy, with two walls entirely made of floor to ceiling windows. It was the sort of apartment John used to see on a show he watched with his mother, called “Selling New York.” He knew the place was worth several million, at least.

The décor was, for the most part, sleek and modern, but interrupted tastefully with the occasional Victorian accent. The stairs, rail-less, and each attached individually to the wall, did appear as though they were flying, just as Harry said. These led to an open loft, about twenty feet off the ground, which jutted over part of the living space. In keeping with the open floorplan, there was no wall to separate the loft from the common space, only a metal railing with horizontal black bars. A bookcase stretched from wall to wall where the edge of the loft floor would normally be visible, making the entire structure appear to float. Across the living space, John could see a spacious, modern kitchen that would have been the picture of minimalism if it were not entirely consumed by clutter.

John looked back to Sherlock, who looked quite amused. John realized his mouth was open, and closed it quickly.

“Oh. My. Gosh!” Harry yelled, running over to the older boys. Once she reached them, she began spinning in circles, arms spread wide. John and Sherlock each smiled, then looked up at the other, and their eyes met. John’s smile widened.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Harry suddenly stopped spinning to face him, out of breath and grinning. “Your parents must be gazillionaires!”

A look of panic promptly replaced John’s smile. “Harry!” he exclaimed and instinctively reached out with one hand to pull her towards him. In doing so, he averted his eyes and gave a small, embarrassed laugh as if to say “Kids, you know?”

“What?” Harry asked her brother loudly and obliviously.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Sherlock answered her first remark. 

John looked up and once again, his eyes met Sherlock’s. The taller boy shrugged, and leaned back against the couch.

Put somewhat at ease by Sherlock’s response, John added, “Speaking of, you’re sure your family’s ok with us being here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then pushed himself up from the couch. “I already told you. This is my apartment.”

With that, he walked around the edge of the couch and headed towards the kitchen on the far side of the room.

John followed. “Right, right. And what exactly does that mean?” he asked.

Arriving at the kitchen island, Sherlock suddenly stopped, his attention caught by the chaotic mess of papers, lab equipment and dishes spread over the counter there.

Carefully and quickly, his hands picked over the chaos, finding various coffee cups, beakers and petri dishes and lifting them to be viewed better, or, on occasion, smelled. John watched him, waiting patiently for his answer.

After a few minutes of hoping John would simply forget about the question, Sherlock huffed, and spun to face him. “It means,” he said, “That my family and I don’t… how shall I put it? Get along. We don’t get along.” With that, he returned to investigating the seemingly random objects thrown about his kitchen.

“What, you think that’s an answer?” John said, half-scoffing. He stepped forward.

Rather than look at the other boy, Sherlock picked up a stack of coffee-stained papers and began flipping through it disinterestedly. It was several more minutes before he continued, speaking as though John had never interrupted him in the first place. “As a result, we came up with this arrangement. They pay for the apartment until I’m eighteen, at which point the monetary and legal responsibilities fall to me. In return, I don’t go out of my way to cause them trouble. Perfect for everyone.” He threw the papers back down.

“So you live by yourself then?” John persevered incredulously.

Finally, Sherlock’s attention returned to him. “Well,” he said, blankly. “There's my hired stand-in guardian – a 36-year-old second-grade teacher by the name of Mrs. Hudson. Her apartment takes up the other approximate… three-sevenths of this floor. She's one of the reasons I picked this particular place to live. I look out for her and she looks out for me on the rare occasions that I need it.” 

“Oh,” John said, unsure of how, exactly, he was supposed to respond. 

Sherlock hesitated, as though to give John more time to formulate a reply, or perhaps even another question. When John did neither, he changed the subject. “Breakfast?” he asked abruptly, then turned away and began opening and closing cabinets haphazardly.

“Yeah, breakfast sounds good.” 

John watched him thoughtfully, curiously for a moment. Sherlock felt his stare, and paused in his movements. By the time he had turned his head to meet John’s gaze, however, the other boy had quickly looked away.

“Yeah,” John said. “Breakfast sounds good.” He hesitated. “Mind if I shower first, though?” he asked tentatively.

For the first time that morning, Sherlock regarded the other boy carefully. Immediately, his eyes jumped to the rumpled gray skinny jeans, and skin bordering on grimy.  
“There’s one upstairs,” Sherlock said, once again taking up his search for something suitably edible. He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the loft. “It’s an en suite,” he added as an afterthought.

While Sherlock continued to hunt through his kitchen, he heard John and Harry head upstairs. There were muffled voices, and not long after, the water started running.

When John and Harry reappeared thirty minutes later, refreshed, and in clean clothes, Sherlock had managed to locate a single unopened box of Frosted Mini Wheats and a few clean bowls, though he did not have any milk.

All the same, he considered his finds a success. Triumphantly, he looked up to inform the Watsons of the victory and found Harry sitting on the couch, determinedly brushing through tangles of long, wet hair. John stood in front of her, his hair completely disheveled and standing on end, clearly waiting to use the brush.

“Ughh!” Harry said in frustration, struggling with an especially stubborn knot. Thus far, only she had only managed to coax about half her hair straight.

“Need some help?” John asked her. Morning sunlight glinted off the wet, purple spikes of his own hair as he moved to take the brush from Harry. 

“No!” the little girl exclaimed, pulling away. 

John sighed and sat down next to her on the couch, waiting patiently. 

When Harry finished, he held out his hand for the brush.

Harry clutched the brush. “No,” she said, with a giggle. “I need to do it. You're bad at it.” 

Obligingly, John leaned forward, lowering his head until it was within his sister’s reach. Harry moved the brush through his hair until it lay flat. 

When that was done, they both looked towards Sherlock, who was watching them. He clearly he throat. “I found some cereal,” he said, holding it up, along with the bowls, “but, unfortunately, I don’t have any milk.”

He looked at the counter, then shoved everything aside until there was room to set the bowls and cereal down. He looked up again. “Actually, we could go get something, if you prefer.”

John’s lips twisted into a smile. “That’s alright,” he said with amusement. “This is fine.”

“What?” Sherlock asked him.

Nothing, John said, smile growing. “You just sound surprised, is all.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, understanding coming onto his face. “Yes, well. I just don’t usually eat breakfast here. Or at all.”

John looked at him quizzically. “There’s so many better things to do,” Sherlock said, simply.

John’s look became skeptical. “It takes too much time,” Sherlock said, getting a little defensive.

“Ok,” John said, with a little laugh. “If you say so.” He got up and moved towards the counter.

Sherlock put the conversation aside, and turned his attention to opening the box. John laid the bowls out, and Sherlock filled each with an equal helping of cereal. 

“Thank you very much, by the way,” John said as Sherlock finished up. He sounded very earnest. 

“It’s just cereal,” Sherlock said.

John was caught by surprise at the response. “No, no,” he laughed. “Well, definitely that too, but I meant for everything.” Sherlock looked up at him. 

“Especially, though,” John said, “for letting us stay with you. That was very kind of you.”

For a moment, Sherlock regarded him. “You know,” he said, slowly, “you could continue staying here if you want. Permanently, even. There’s no need to leave if you don’t want to.”

John drew a sharp breath, surprised at Sherlock’s offer. “Wow, um. Thank you,” he said, trying to contrive a response, “But we really couldn’t.”

“Yes, you could,” Sherlock countered immediately. “You don’t have anywhere to go. You won’t last on the streets alone with a four-year old. Nor are you willing to ask any further favors of your friends. Even working two part-time jobs, you don’t make enough money to pay for lodging expenses in Chicago. If you return home, you will have to give up custody of Harry and return to school. Logically, the best thing to do is stay on at Bakers Street with me, and I just gave you that option,” Sherlock finished conclusively.

John still looked hesitant. “We don’t even really know you. We couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Well, you’ll get to know me then, won’t you?” Sherlock said, sounding for all the world as though the matter were already decided.

John thought about it, for a minute. “You really wouldn't mind?” he asked.

“That's what I said,” Sherlock repeated, beginning to sound impatient.

“Well, then… yeah, alright,” John agreed. “That sounds great.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good,” he said. “Then the loft is yours.”


	6. A Gunshot

Knowing he and Harry had a place to stay was a tremendous weight off John’s shoulders. 

However, he still had his doubts about Sherlock, especially because he had been so quick to open his home to them while they still barely knew each other. In the end though, John decided there was a little bit of adventure in that, and put his worries aside. Though he had initially been a little skeptical of Sherlock’s strange living arrangements, John also realized that his and Harry’s own circumstances were pretty strange. Besides, he thought, this had worked out nearly perfectly for him and Harry, and the poor kid was probably lonely.

“How old are you?” John asked suddenly, breaking the pensive silence in the room. From the other side of the black leather, L-shaped couch in his living room, Sherlock answered calmly, “Sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” John asked, incredulous.

“Yes.” Sherlock looked up from his laptop. “And you?”

“Eighteen,” John said, “like you said the other day.”

“Thought so,” Sherlock said, then returned to reading something or other on his computer.

“I’m four!” Harry announced, making herself a part of the conversation.

“I know,” Sherlock said mildly. Harry smiled, then went back to playing with her Star Wars action figures. Currently, Anakin Skywalker and Mace Windu were engaged in a very intense, complicated flying dance battle which she had to attend to.

It was about eight o’clock in the evening. After a lovely breakfast of dry cereal, the three new roommates had gone to collect additional belongings from the Watson’s old house. John had been fully prepared to never return to his dad’s apartment, but Sherlock had pointed out the practicality of returning for possessions they might have wanted but not had room for in their duffel bag when they first left. The matter was not settled, though, until John realized the task could be accomplished without ever running into his father, who was at work.

When their mission was accomplished, Sherlock, John and Harry had returned to Bakers Street, where they spent the rest of the day settling in.

Now, though, it was time for the only thing that had been constant in John’s life since his mother’s illness had put her in the hospital: work. John’s manager had been sympathetic when he told her that he and his little sister were now homeless, and she agreed to give him a few days to get back on his feet. John knew the only reason she had been so accommodating at such short notice was because he had been working there nearly two years now, but he also knew that now he would have to put in extra effort to make it up to her.

John stood up from the couch. “Alright, Harry, almost ready to go to Mia’s?” he asked.

Harry dropped her toys and followed suit. “Yep!” She jumped up, holding out her arms so that John would pick her up. 

He laughed. “I have to go change first, but then we’ll go.”

“Go where?” Sherlock asked, surprise in his voice though his face was blank.

“I have to go to work,” John said, caught slightly off guard by Sherlock’s sudden interest in their activities. “She goes to a family friend’s house while I’m there.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, interest dissolving. His eyes reflected the light of the computer screen, making them look bluish gray. He returned to his work, but John stood there a minute longer. 

“Well?” Sherlock asked as he typed. “Aren’t you going?”

John shook himself. “Oh, yeah,” he replied quickly and hurried off towards the stairs. A while later he returned, his usual sweater exchanged for a green polo shirt and a black zip-up fleece, carrying Harry’s jacket.

“Come on, Harry,” he said.

“Ok!” she yelled, and ran over to stick her arms in the jacket John was holding for her. John looked down at her armful of toys. “Only one,” he told her sternly. After debating for a moment, Harry chose Anakin, and dumped the rest on the coffee table.

John scooped the little girl up and looked over to Sherlock. “Well, bye then,” he said. “We’ll be back around seven thirty.”

“Bye, Sherlock!” Harry chirped.

The other boy lifted his hand in a silent wave, never looking at the two. 

John lingered for a moment. He did not really know why he did so, and as soon as he caught himself, he left.

The first couple hours of John's work were nice. People were interested in how he was doing, what he was up to and made sure to fill him in on all the major drama that happened while he was gone. After his few stressful days off, John was happy to see his friends, and happy to work hard. 

Five hours in to his eight hour shift, though, some of the excitement had begun to wear off, and John found himself thinking about his new home and its inhabitant more than anything that was happening in front of him. Thankfully, though, working as a night employee at a grocery store was a mindless job, so his wandering thoughts did not inhibit his work.

Tonight, John was on shipment duty, which was a little more stimulating than usual if only because he was constantly moving between inside and out. The position mainly involved unloading the semi-trucks full of new groceries as they arrived with the help of a small team of other employees. It was uncomfortable work, having to be in and out, and in and out, bringing the boxes in. The air was frigid, but the workers were hot and sweaty, and everyone had taken off their jackets after hour three. 

Though John was unaware of it because he was working at the rear of the store, the storage room’s front double doors burst open. Immediately interested in the abnormal occurrence, the workers near the front slowed or even stopped their stacking and loading of boxes to see what would happen. Their curiosity was compounded when they realized the person was not even an employee.

The stranger addressed the closest green-smocked and weary-looking manager. 

“Yes, hello, I need John Watson. Where is he?” Sherlock inquired, speaking quickly. The woman glared at him, but disappeared down one of the large aisles on Sherlock's right.  
A few minutes passed. Sherlock locked his hands behind his back and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet as he waited. His eyes slid over the people and the space around him, taking in the hidden stories written in the details. He found most of the information irrelevant, however, and most of the information was discarded immediately.  
Soon, John appeared from between two aisles. Once he got there, he stopped to look around, swiveling his gaze quickly over the store. When he recognized Sherlock his clouded expression subsided slightly and he began taking long, hurried strides towards the other boy.

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed when he was a few paces away, worry evident in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Distracted and unfazed, Sherlock pointed at someone to John’s right. “Did you know that woman – there – has a cocaine addiction?” he asked. Then he indicated someone else behind John with his long finger, “And that bald man over there has a criminal record for violence?” 

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, sternly. Sherlock’s attention was immediately drawn back to John. “Why are you here?” John repeated.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, still sounding quite cheery. “I need your opinion. You were planning to go in to the medical field at one point in your life, before you dropped out of school, I believe. You haven't happened to have done some research in the field have you?”

John’s expression hardened. “Oh God, Sherlock. What happened? Who's hurt? It's not Harry is it?”

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together in confusion. “No, nothing of the sort. Why would you think that? It has to do with a corpse.” He smiled pleasantly. 

John’s eyes widened, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Bloody hell, Sherlock! A corpse?” Though he was whispering, Sherlock immediately knew that if they were alone, John would be yelling.

John looked down at the floor, then back up to search Sherlock's face, unsure of what to think.

Just as John opened his mouth to demand an answer, Sherlock went completely still. All of his attention focused on something happening behind John. John half-turned to look behind him, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. Confused, he looked back at Sherlock.

Sherlock was still frozen. Now growing annoyed, John again turned to search for the object of Sherlock’s attention. “What are you–”

Before John had the chance to finish his sentence, he was sent reeling. The world blurred and tilted, and John could feel the concrete floor coming at him fast. He knew he did not have even the slightest chance at catching his balance.

He landed hard on his back, head smacking the concrete floor. He let out a groan and twisted sideways, clutching his arms to his stomach. It took him a moment to recover his breath enough to speak. “The fuck, Sherlock?” he moaned, putting a hand to his aching head.

All of a sudden, the loud crack of a bullet echoed through the large storage room. Moments seemed to lag, and the world rang with the sound, while John’s brain tried to process what was happening.

Dimly, as though from across a great distance, he registered the sounds of two more shots being released in quick succession. With effort, turned his head towards the source of the sound, and saw the bald man Sherlock had pointed out earlier. He winced, realizing the gun was aimed where he and Sherlock had just been standing.

John felt a hand on his wrist, and looked up. Sluggishly he registered Sherlock standing over him, shouting his name over the noise in his ears and in his head. Then he was being tugged up, and away from the double doors.

As pallet after pallet of shrink-wrapped boxes rushed past, John’s mind replayed the preceding events half a dozen time until he finally grasped the full implications of what had happened. He realized suddenly that Sherlock was running for an exit, and still dragging him along by the wrist.

With newfound awareness, John put more speed into his run. Sherlock sensed him surface, and quickened his pace as well. 

Before long, they arrived at the now-deserted loading area. John looked around in surprise, realizing that Sherlock had known where he was going the entire time. The plan, however, was a tactful one. Most people would have tried to run out the double doors into the rest of the store, and then out the front doors. John shuddered, understanding that doing so exposed his friends and coworkers to further danger. 

As they raced through the loading bay, they were suddenly hit by a gust of chilled wind, and they emerged into the open air.


	7. A Barista

Sherlock yanked John around the corner of the building. He let go of John’s wrist, and glanced in both directions, deciding which way to go. John leaned against the wall and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“What...” John began, then stopped to suck in a breath. “…the fuck…” He paused again. “…was that?” He turned sharply towards Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored him. He was also breathing hard, but when he spoke it was obvious that he was far more exhilarated then exhausted by the exertion. “Come on, John!” he said, excitedly, “No time for dilly-dallying,” and took off sprinting again.

John huffed, then pushed himself up to follow after Sherlock’s disappearing coattails.

As soon as they reached a larger road with a thin crowd of pedestrians on its sidewalks and a healthy stream of cars passing by, Sherlock slowed to a brisk walk. A few steps later, John caught up with him. “Seriously, Sherlock,” he said, still catching his breath and somewhat in shock. “What's going on?” 

Sherlock met John’s eyes as he brushed past a couple trying to hail a taxi. His lips parted slightly, as though he were about to speak, but after a moment’s hesitation he closed them again and pointedly directed his attention away.

John persevered. “Was that gun aimed at you?” he asked. “Does this have to do with that corpse? You didn't kill anyone did you? Christ, please say you didn't kill anyone.”

Now, Sherlock’s eyes met his again, this time in the form of a glare. “Don't be stupid,” he answered, indignant. “Of course I didn't kill anyone.” He considered his own words for a moment, then added. “Yes, the gun was aimed at me, though I'm sure they figured if you were hit it would do the trick just as well; and yes, it has everything to do with the corpse. It’s convenient, really, that I was expecting something of the sort to happen.”

Though the rest of his face seemed to remain calm, a spark of anger flashed in John’s eyes. “What do you mean you were expecting ‘something of the sort to happen’?”

Sherlock did not seem to notice John’s sudden change in mood. He lengthened his strides, upping their pace to one slightly faster than the shorter boy could walk at comfortably.

“It means,” Sherlock said, “that I’ve already made preparations with Lestrade in regards to the body. They won't get their hands on anything if Lestrade has had any success getting those imbeciles of his to follow my instructions. Somehow he usually manages it, at least to some extent.”

Growing frustrated with Sherlock’s cryptic answers, John practically yelled in exasperation, “Who the fuck are ‘they?’” Sherlock jerked backwards, startled. 

“Who is Lestrade?” John continued at the same volume, “And what in bloody hell does a corpse have to do with it?”

Several passersby directed concerned looks their way, before shuffling away somewhat faster than before. Sherlock considered John intently, attention that had seemed divided a moment ago now entirely focused on John. John felt his cheeks flush, but he resisted the urge to duck his head away, instead never breaking Sherlock’s gaze.

A swift change came over Sherlock’s face and he leaned in close to John, hovering there for a moment. John felt Sherlock’s warm breath on his cheek before he said softly, “Let’s not talk about it here. Anyone could hear us.”

As he pulled away, John spun towards him. Their cheeks nearly brushed as he turned. If anything, the proximity only added to John’s irritation. “I was just bloody shot at, Sherlock!” he hissed, anger still flared.

Sherlock drew himself entirely back into his space, calmly putting his hands in his pockets. “It's happened before,” he replied, an edge to his tone. “I don't see why it should be so traumatizing this time around.”

“You’re missing the point, Sherlock!” John exclaimed, unappeased. “Don't you think I should bloody well know why I was in the line of fire?”

Sherlock looked away again, directing his attention up the street. The movement was clearly meant to imply that he had already said all he would say on the matter.

“Oh my God, Sherlock. Can I at least know where we're going?”

As if on cue, Sherlock stopped short. John was caught by surprise, and it took him a few steps before he managed to turn himself around. When he turned around, Sherlock stood, carefully considering a warmly lit window in the crumbling façade of an old building.

“What?” John asked, anger suddenly overcome by curiosity. 

Sherlock considered the building a moment long, then announced, “This should suffice,” and disappeared through the doorway without so much as looking at John.

John looked around for a hint at what the business might be and his attention landed on a sidewalk sign where “Left and Right Coffee” was chalked in artistic lettering. John mouthed the words to himself, then looked at the door. Sherlock’s comment came back to him and his brow furrowed. “What?” he asked aloud.

He stared a little longer, then shook his head and followed his companion in.

The shop was a quiet, cozy little place with an alternative, collegiate vibe. A handful of patrons – for the most part students with their books – were scattered throughout. After standing in the entryway for a moment, John identified his friend standing at the end of the line, hands clasped behind his back again, and made his way towards him. Sherlock’s mannerism seemed almost theatrical to John, as though Sherlock was putting on a show for the general public.

As John stepped up to the end of the line, he leaned forward slightly to address Sherlock. “Alright,” he said through clenched teeth, keeping his eyes on the people around them. “Why are we here?”

Sherlock inclined his head slightly towards John without looking entirely over his shoulder. “Bit obvious, I should think,” he whispered back.

“Right, of course,” John replied. He gave a small nod in mock seriousness. “Coffee is the natural course of action after being attacked.”

He could practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, John,” he said, raising his voice to a normal volume. “It's cover, so they don't follow us. The shooter is unlikely to have followed us this far, but if he has, he won't shoot into a crowded coffee shop. As a convenient bonus, coffee is a slight stimulant and I need to think. Enhances thought process.”

John considered Sherlock’s answer for a moment. “Right,” he said slowly, thinking, “But he shot in a crowded warehouse, so why would he not shoot here?”

Sherlock studied the menu. “He had cover and back up there that he wouldn't have if he entered a random location. It’s pretty safe to assume we got away.”

The lady in front of them in line turned around to scowl at them. Sherlock gave her a charming smile. “Theory problems for psychology class,” he said pleasantly.

She gave an annoyed huff, but turned back towards the counter. 

John glared at Sherlock, but Sherlock only continued to study the menu intently. Deciding to let it go, John realized a warm drink sounded actually rather pleasant just then and began skimming the menu himself. It did not take him long to find the listing for tea, but he pretended he was still considering the menu until they arrived at the counter. That was an old habit of his, one he never really noticed enough to change. 

“Good evening! What can I get you two gentleman tonight?” asked a good-looking young man of about twenty. His dark hair stood up on end, spiky and carefully mussed. Sparkly, charcoal eyeliner rimmed deep, smiling brown eyes.

“Large latte, extra double shot,” Sherlock declared, as though giving military orders to recent recruits on their first day.

“Sir, I don't know if you know this, but a latte already comes with a double shot, so an extra double shot would be–”

“Four shots of espresso?” Sherlock finished the cashier’s question, one eyebrow raised challengingly. 

For his part, the cashier flashed Sherlock a bright smile. “Wow,” he said, impressed, “here's a guy who knows how to handle caffeine.” He looked down, concentration fixed on entering the order into the register by means of pressing far more buttons than actually seemed necessary. “Alright,” he said, looking up. “Anything else for you today?” he asked pleasantly.

“No,” Sherlock started to say, but stopped as John stepped up, placing his hands on the counter. 

“Yes, actually. I'd like a medium earl gray tea, please.” John felt Sherlock’s eyes on him and he turned towards the other boy, cheeks turning pink. “It's your fault my wallet’s still at work,” he said defensively. “And there’s no way I’m going back there tonight. Besides, this was your idea.”

Sherlock considered this, then smiled, apparently amused. “Very well,” he said, and gave a small nod towards the cashier.

The young man quickly averted his eyes and began punching buttons. However, he moved too late to hide how intently he had been watching them. “Alright, the total comes to $5.79,” he announced quickly, not looking at either of them.

When he looked up, Sherlock was holding out a glossy, sapphire credit card to him. Hurriedly, he took the card, ran it and returned it to its owner.

Sherlock moved towards the other end of the counter, but John unintentionally dawdled for a moment and the cashier asked, “Can I have names for the order?”

“Um. Sherlock,” John said, indicating the other boy by thrusting his thumb in that direction, “and John.” He turned his thumb on himself, then let his hand fall to his side and smiled politely.

The cashier began entering their names into the system, and John started to move away. At the movement, the cashier suddenly looked up. “Are you two...?” He trailed off, but held John’s gaze, his eyes shimmering with the question.

John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Are we what?” he asked.

The cashier hesitated. “A couple?” he finished.

John’s eyes widened and he quickly looked away, face reddening. “No, ah… no. We’re not a couple,” he said and stepped away from the counter.

The cashier seemed sorry to have asked, so John gave him a small smile before he quickly retreated to Sherlock’s end of the counter.

Sherlock was engrossed in his texts, thumbs flying deftly over the keyboard. John took his place next to his companion, but was too busy thinking about what had just happened to imagine asking Sherlock who he was texting, or what it was that he was texting about.

It was only a few minutes before a voice called out John’s name to alert him his beverage was ready. Lost in his thoughts, John startled at the sound. He shot a glance towards Sherlock, who had not yet looked up from his phone, and made his way towards the counter. 

When he got there, John was surprised to find the same employee from the cash register smiling at him, holding out a paper cup. The barista leaned forward conspiratorially. “A hot drink for a hot guy,” he said with a wink and a confident smile. He balanced a flat cardboard sleeve on the lid with one hand and held the drink out to John.

Flustered and too tongue tied to speak, John averted his eyes and his gaze fell on the barista’s name tag. “Ryker,” it read. John’s face turned crimson. “Oh. Um... Ah… Thank you,” John managed, looking down at the counter. Behind him, Sherlock looked up from his phone.

John reached for his tea, and as the cup transferred hands, his fingers brushed the cashier’s. John felt his face redden even further, the blush spreading all the way to his ears. Then he realized the tea was scalding hot and he quickly set the drink down to put the hot sleeve on it.

He busied himself with the task, intentionally not looking up at the barista. The barista moved away, presumably to put Sherlock’s drink together. As soon as he could hold his drink comfortably, John made his way back to Sherlock.

John hoped Sherlock would not try to talk about what had just happened, though he was certain Sherlock had witnessed the entire scene. Unfortunately, he had no such luck. Texts forgotten, Sherlock observed John closely until he took up his previous position. “He finds you attractive,” Sherlock announced. 

John blew out a long breath. “I rather noticed,” he said quietly, shifting his weight on his feet. He took a deep breath. “But I'm not gay.” He did not look at Sherlock.

Sherlock examined him intently, calculating. After a moment, John felt him look away. When he looked up, Sherlock’s expression was blank and he was again tapping away on his phone. John relaxed a little bit.

“I'm not the one who needs convincing,” Sherlock said.

John jumped. “Right,” he said, a little distantly.

Hardly a moment had passed before the barista was calling out “Sherlock” over the quiet murmur in the shop. Sherlock shoved his phone in his pocket and strode forward to collect his drink. 

“Have a nice night!” the barista said cheerily. Sherlock shot him a pointed glare in response and spun on his heels to head back towards John.

He swept past his companion on his way back, his expression cloudy. “Come on,” he said tersely, and John followed him silently to a table near the unlit fireplace.

As they slid into their chairs, – or in Sherlock’s case, flopped into theirs chairs – John’s mind raced with the strange events of the day. First, going back to his old apartment had solidified the distance between his old life and his new. He knew for certain there was no going back. And, as if that was not enough, someone had tried to shoot him.

Absentmindedly, John fiddled with the cardboard sleeve, sliding it up and down the cup. 

Then, there was just the whole thing with Sherlock. And now, on top of everything, people were flirting with him. 

He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed.

“John,” Sherlock said. His voice sounded clear and solid over the noise around them.

“Hm?” John asked a second later, pulling his hands away from his face and looking up.

Sherlock’s gaze bore into him as he tried to decipher what was happening inside John’s head. Suddenly, John felt exhausted. He propped his head on his hand.

Sherlock’s light-colored eyes flicked over his face. After a moment he ventured a question, sounding partly unsure of himself and partly concerned. “Are you alright?”

John’s brow furrowed as though Sherlock had no reason to believe otherwise. “Yeah,” he said, but his voice came out quiet and weak. He sat up and cleared his throat, putting his hands in his lap. “Yeah,” he said again, stronger this time. He nodded. “Fine.”

Sherlock remained unconvinced, his skepticism clear on his unsmiling face. John took a drink of his tea. 

To John’s relief, Sherlock’s phone buzzed. Immediately, Sherlock’s mind was elsewhere. His eyes quickly scanned the message. “Everything’s under control,” he announced, starting to type out a reply.

“Good,” John said, nodding though he still had no idea as to what, exactly, had been in their power to control.

Sherlock stood. “Let’s go,” he said, stuffing his phone into his pocket and picking up his coffee with his other hand.

“Mm, ok,” John said, setting his tea down so he could zip up his jacket as he stood. Sherlock did not wait for him, but rather glided towards the door, and was already outside by the time John was ready to go, tea in hand.

“Hey, wait!” John called, hurrying after him. When he rushed out onto the sidewalk, Sherlock had already caught a taxi and was opening the door.

“Wait,” John said, breathless, and Sherlock paused with his hand on the door until John was right behind him. Then, he pulled the door open and stood aside.

John looked at him quizzically. Sherlock motioned him in with one hand and John took one step forward, then looked back at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Get in,” he said, putting his hand on John’s lower back and gently pushing him forward. John stumbled into the cab and scooted over to the far seat.

Sherlock fell in next to him, slamming the door. “Baker Street,” he directed the driver.

The driver’s eyes widened. “Alright, Mister,” he said quickly, and took off as fast as he could.


	8. A Babysitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm happy to announce that this was the last chapter that needed editing, (though a lot of it is actually new material). Henceforth, we shall make the perilous journey onward into new material together.

After an impossibly long journey through the lobby and up the elevator, during which John had nearly fallen asleep on more than one occasion, John and Sherlock finally reached the apartment.

Without bothering to even turn on the lights or take off his coat, Sherlock flopped dramatically onto the couch. 

John flicked on the lights for him, then froze, standing in the doorway. “Shit,” he said, “I have to get Harry.”

“Mmmph,” Sherlock said into the cushions. He rolled over. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

John pulled out his phone to check the time. 4:53. “It’s only 4:53?” John asked in disbelief. “Yeah, then I guess I’ll wait. I don’t usually get her ‘til around seven. God, feels like I’ve been up forever.” Slowly, as though it cost him great effort, he bent down to unlace his boots.

“Most likely the adrenaline wearing off,” Sherlock said. He pulled out his phone again, the little screen lighting up his entire face.

“Yeah,” John said, voice suddenly hardening, “you never told me what that was all about.”

“Hm? Didn’t I?” Sherlock asked distractedly.

“No,” John said, “You didn’t.” He walked over and dropped onto the couch as well. “Or why that cabbie seemed so jumpy around you.”

Sherlock rolled onto his side on the other side of the L-shaped couch. “Ah, well that was just coincidence. He’s a generally anxious person. Didn’t you see how worn his steering wheel cover was? Or his nails?”

John had not noticed these things. He sipped the remainder of his lukewarm tea in silence. “Well,” he said after a few minutes, “What about that shooter?”

“Hold on,” Sherlock said, then sat up, looking directly at John. “That’s actually a good question.” He stood quickly, jumped over the back of the couch and disappeared into his room. He returned a few minutes later with his laptop, and a violin case.

“You play an instrument?” John asked, surprised.

“Violin,” Sherlock said, not really paying John any attention as he hurriedly unzipped the instrument case.

John inched forward in his seat. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Thinking,” Sherlock said, flinging himself down onto the couch, instrument and bow in hand. Slowly, with great concentration, he ran the bow across the G string. A long, warm, resonating pitch rang through the room. He stopped, and adjusted the tuning peg slightly. He played the note again.

“Wow,” John breathed.

Sherlock proceeded to tune the D, E, and A strings, then broke into Kreutzer’s Etude No. 42. John sat in absolute awe of his roommate’s classical musical abilities for several minutes before his exhaustion took over entirely. The notes began to blend together, and in what felt like no time at all, John awoke to a loud piercing screech and the room was bathed in sunlight.

The singular loud screech quickly became a series of harsh, rapid screeches. John jolted upright, clapping his hands over his ears. He glanced around the room. And saw Sherlock standing behind him, on the kitchen counter, the detritus of abandoned experiments scattered around his feet. He stared downwards at nothing in particular as he scraped frustrated at his violin, frowning deeply.

Suddenly, Sherlock stilled, and John thought that perhaps the other boy had realized he was awake, but then Sherlock yanked the bow across the strings again and fell back into raucous, agitated rendition of… something. John stood, hands still slammed over his ears, and the notes grew louder. 

When John looked at Sherlock again, he realized that Sherlock treated the violin like an extension of himself. His movements and interactions with the instrument were fluid, harmonious and yet, here he was pounding through the same notes over and over, warping and abusing them in his intensity and frustration.

John blinked in the morning sunlight, unsure of whether or not he should say something. Then, it dawned on him that it was morning, and he scrambled to pull his phone out of his pocket to check the time. The screen displayed the time 2:43 and two missed phone calls. They were both from Mrs. Wilkinson. 

“Shit,” he mumbled and rushed towards the door, throwing on his boots and coat as he encountered them. Halfway out the door he called over his shoulder, “Getting Harry!” over the sound of the violin.

As far as he could tell, his words were only met with a particularly loud and screechy note from Sherlock, who did not seem to notice his departure.

In the elevator, he tried to call Mrs. Wilkinson, but the call went straight to her voicemail. He tried their home phone, and got the same. Worried he had caused the other family trouble, John raced through the city until he arrived at the Wilkinsons’ front door, tired and out of breath.

He rang the doorbell.

“Oh! That must be your brother,” he heard from inside the apartment.

“John!” he heard, followed by a series of excited squeals and delighted laughter. He heard the lock turn, and the door opened.

Two ecstatic little girls ran into his legs, practically knocking him over. Harry grabbed his hand, and jumped up and down yelling “John, John, John, John, John!” while Mia laughed uproariously and sat down on one of his feet, hugging his leg.

“Hullo, you two!” John smiled at them, and the girls looked up at him gleefully. Neither one looked remotely likely to relinquish their hold on John and he smiled. “Are you guys gonna let go?” he asked.

They shook their heads and giggled. Harry quickly let go of his hand to sit on his other foot and hug his leg.

“Well, alright, then,” John shrugged. He grinned and raised his hands above his head, pretending like they were claws. “Rawwwwwwr!” he exclaimed, and moved one foot forward and then the next, the girls shrieking with laughter until they were into the apartment. 

“Alright, alright, you two,” John said, once they had reached the end of the short hallway. 

“Awwwwwww,” they said, loosening their grips.

“I know, I know. But I need to talk to your mom.” They let go, and John took a step forward.

Mia sprang up. “She’s not here. She went to work.”

John’s stomach sank. “Oh,” he said, shifting his feet guiltily. “Really?”

Mia nodded. “Ryker’s here instead.”

John felt his heart jump. “Ryker?” he asked, disbelievingly, then looked up at the empty room.

“Yeah, he’s my babysitter. He’s in the–” 

Harry shoved Mia and ran the other direction, shrieking “You’re it!” and Mia dashed after her.

John looked around, his confusion written on his face. He took a step towards the kitchen and someone appeared from around the corner of the doorframe. It was the same dark haired, sparkly-eyed guy from the coffee shop the night before.

John faltered and stopped in his tracks.

Ryker’s face lit up. “Hey! John, right?” He took a step forward into the living room.

John nodded.

“Mrs. Wilkinson told me Harry’s brother would be coming to pick her up, but how funny that it’s you!” He leaned against the wall, arms folded, still smiling brightly. John noticed that the sleeves of his shirt came only part of the way down his arms, revealing well-muscled forearms. 

Purposefully, John redirected his attention to the other boy’s face. “Y-yeah,” he stammered, then took a moment to calm himself. 

“I am really sorry about that,” he said, guilt tugging at him again. “I tried to call, but it went straight to voicemail.”

Ryker waved the sentence away. “That’s alright. I think the house phone’s dead. And hers is off for work. Anyway, it’s not a problem. She told me to tell you not to worry and that everyone needs to sleep in every once in a while.” Ryker smiled. 

John gave a tight-lipped smile back, unsure of what to say.

“Oh, and Harry is just the cutest, by the way,” Ryker added. “She’s been telling me all day about how cool her brother is, and I think I would have to agree.”

John tried his very best not to blush. Instead, he looked away. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Hey,” Ryker started, “I really wanted to ask you this last night, but–”

He was cut off by sound of John’s cell phone. Immediately, John’s attention was diverted, and he fished his phone out of his pocket to check the display.

It was from his manager.

Quickly, John looked back to Ryker. “I have to take this,” he said. “Sorry.”

Ryker waved his hand, saying it was fine.

John turned away. “Hello?” he asked into his phone.

“John? It's Patty.”

“Hi, Patty.”

“So, listen John. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

“What?” John asked, taken aback. “Why?”

He heard a long sigh on the other end of the line. “You were always a hard worker, but in light of recent circumstances…” Patty trailed off.

John waited.

“Well, you know we can’t have people with gang association working for us. It’s a liability to the company.”

“Patty,” he said, seriously. “You know I don’t have gang associations.”

She paused. “My superiors reviewed the security footage and the entire plan seemed to be aimed at you.”

John’s heart beat faster.

“I’m sorry, John,” Patty said, empathetically. “It’s out of my hands.”

Suddenly, John thought of something. “Well, what about whoever it was that did the shooting? You guys hired him, too. Clearly you need to screen more carefully.”

Patty hesitated for a moment, then said slowly, “Well, that's the thing. He never even worked here. Whoever it was, was only here because you were.”

“That can’t possibly...” John trailed off, his throat suddenly dry. Sherlock’s rang through his mind: “It’s convenient, really, that I was expecting something of the sort to happen.” John’s eyes widened with realization.

He swallowed. It was aimed at him, then. “Fine. Fine. I understand, but my coat and my wallet are still at the store.”

“You can stop by anytime today to pick them up,” Patty told him. Her words were firm, but her voice sounded sorry.

“Thanks,” John said, though he had already stopped paying attention to the conversation. His mind was already racing, thinking back to everything Sherlock had been saying about a corpse, about Lestrade, and everything he had refused to say about the shooter and the entire situation.

“Bye,” Patty said, sadly.

“Bye,” John returned, and closed out the call. Anger wrenched in his gut. He jabbed furiously at his phone. It was not until he had reached the contacts that it dawned on him that he did not actually have Sherlock’s number. His thumb hovered uselessly above the screen, and all John could do was stare at the space between “Sam Morton” and “Sydney Brooks” where Sherlock’s name should have been.

“Everything ok?” Ryker asked, mildly concerned.

John jumped. 

In the intensity of the news at hand, as well as his realization about Sherlock, John had forgotten that anyone else was even around. He turned back towards Ryker, phone held listlessly in one hand. 

“Yeah, yeah. Fine,” he said, responding automatically. Then, he realized the lack of truth in the words. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Well, actually, I just lost my job.”

Ryker’s expression changed into sympathy. He stood up from where he had been leaning against the wall. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” John said, realizing it was not alright. “Anyway, I better get going. It was funny running into you, thanks for watching Harry.”

John turned, yelling his sister’s name down the hallway. In a moment she appeared, bright-eyed and bouncy as ever.

“Hey!” Ryker said, brightening again. “We’ll walk you.”

“Oh, no.” John said. “That’s–”

“Mia!” Ryker called, “Put your coat on. Let’s go for a walk.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so if you have anything to say, go ahead and say it. Comments are very much appreciated. :)


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